What I Could Not Say
by ARoseWithThorns
Summary: Canon for Season 3 up until the end of The Sign of Three. Elements of HLV. Molly and Sherlock are abducted and must work together to escape Sebastian Moran and Moriarty. Starts off fluffy and gets dark. Nothing but Sherlolly. Rated for very scary themes, some language, medical terms (for the squeamish), and sexuality. Please read responsibly, thank you.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: It's been a long time since I've written fan faction, but I watched "The Empty Hearse" a few days ago, and yeah… enough said. This is just to tide me over till Sunday. This takes place after "The Empty Hearse," but before John and Mary's wedding. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer****: This is obviously fan faction. I own only my own works, imagination, a British bloke, and two darling kids. And a crush on Sherlock.**

Navigating through the security doors was so easy it was laughable, really. For such an established and well-known hospital, Bart's could do with a tighter security protocol. Still, Sherlock wasn't about to bring the lapse in security up anytime soon, as it played to his advantage. He quietly approached the double doors to the pathology lab that Molly would undoubtedly be behind, though his usual swagger was slightly misplaced, and he took more time than necessary getting there. He had felt off-foot with her, since seeing her fiancé.

_Fiancé_, he snarled to himself, his mouth silently forming the words as one might say _evil _or _reprehensible_. He would never admit his true feelings, because he knew that love _burn_edyou, for he had felt the scorn in his youth, losing himself entirely to a girl, and then losing his faith in love entirely when she had been brutally ripped away from him and this life, murdered in cold blood. He had sworn at her grave that never again would he be vulnerable, never again would he love anyone else. Ever. But it had been in vain, because he _did _love Molly. Painfully. So much so, that he often found himself turning away whenever she entered a party he was at or a friendly gathering, afraid one smidgeon of his repressed affections would show, and what a disaster that would turn out to be.

Seizing the moment to give her the most impassioned kiss he could in Bart's before he disappeared, had helped him to survive being tortured in Russia. The image of her honest, pretty face, small and bright and pure, caged between his palms and bursting with hunger for him – for she _had _been hungry; he could taste it on her lip_s, _held him together when he would have fallen apart after the beatings, the whippings, the pseudo drowning they had put him through. He had held onto the thought of her, the possibility of something with her while he lay curled in the cold, damp dark. No one had managed to cotton onto the fact that he was, albeit a genius and crude in his methods, very fragile to the world right now. If Mycroft gleaned his emotional predicament, the bastard was at least tactful enough to not have brought it up during their talks.

When he'd asked Molly to help him solve crimes, she didn't realize it was him asking her on a date. As he'd counseled John years ago when he told John to take Sarah to the Chinese circus, Sherlock had always felt that a gentleman should step out of the world and do something significant for his intended; Molly was a pathologist; like a sheltered rose, her petals had to be stripped from the delicate, meek exterior to see the beautiful, strong bud inside. She was vastly intelligent, but somewhere along the way had learned to secrete that beneath an unassuming facade, as people were intimidated by those smarter than they were, as he very well knew. Him taking her along was his attempt at showing her he cared, that they had a special, unique shared interest and that he wanted more of that with her … but he was deluding himself; he'd seen the ring the moment he walked into the locker room.

Sherlock knew in the deep, dangerous cave of his heart that he could never be the lover he had been in his youth, unguarded and unreserved, but he'd hoped that perhaps seeing Molly again, being near her, she could… help him, somehow. Molly had a gift for seeing the man he truly was inside and drawing him out of himself; she'd always had. He used to be wary of it, but he was damaged and searching and damnit, he needed her. But then, there was this fiancé, Tom, who might as well be his doppelganger.

What made it worse was that he saw that flicker of happy settlement in her eyes when he'd visited her in the locker room for the first time in two years; the light that shone upon her diamond ring bespoke of a man who was very invested in her. She may be immune to the fact that Tom resembled him from the tips of his shiny Italian loafers, to the annoyingly (and slightly taller) point of his curly bloody hair, but she seemed unaware of this fact, and truly happy.

Sherlock wanted to hit something.

Instead, he drew a deep breath, schooled his face impassively, and pushed the door to the lab open. The lab was empty; an empty teacup was placed on a coaster by her computer, which she'd locked. Good girl. He heard the swing music of a big brass band coming from the staff break room kitchenette that eventually led to the morgue around the corner, and Frank Sinatra's voice began crooning, "That's life… that what all the people say…" He stayed close to the wall and walked carefully towards the niche with the kitchenette.

"You're ridin' high in April, shot down in May…" He heard movement, and very carefully he peered around the corner.

Molly's hair was flowing down her back, her lab coat hung on a nearby wooden wall peg. She was cutting a slice of chocolate cake, and swaying to the music, humming along beneath her breath. He kept himself hidden for a minute as he watched her, the corners of his mouth twitching as she got into the song, dancing and licking chocolate off her fingers and spinning out at one point until she realized he was leaning against the doorjamb with his hands crossed, looking smugly at her. He had long ago perfected the science of elegant slouching. Dolefully mundane, but a helpful necessity.

"Sherlock! Oh-oh God!" Luckily her slice of cake was secure on the counter, but she self-consciously whirled around, turning the CD player off, her back to him as she palmed her red face.

"Don't stop on my account," he laughed. "The old boy would be offended. This was one of his best works. Or so father used to allude to."

Molly glanced at him, mortified. "Y-you couldn't have said you were there? Really? I mean I-I-"

Sherlock smirked, prowling towards her slowly, lowering his voice. "I'll make you a deal, Molly. For a slice of that chocolate cake, I'll take your secret to the grave."

Faster than a rabbit on speed, Molly whipped the plate in front of him. "Done," she laughed, walking around him to slice another piece of cake for herself. "Oh God, Sherlock. Is there any other way I could possibly embarrass myself in front of you? I think I've done pretty much everything, short of running around the morgue naked, screaming like a mental patient."

He ate a forkful of the cake, which was really rich and flavorful. "If it helps at all, they used to call me Shirley Shirley Whirley in school," he winked at her, brushing her cheek with the back of his knuckles. "Oh, Molly. You needn't ever worry about how you act around me. I quite enjoy you. Very much, in fact."

Molly's huge doe eyes gazed up at him, and he felt himself stir at the warmth in them. _Rein in those emotions, man. _He sought refuge in the cake, looking down at it as he took another bite. "This is delicious, incidentally. Why didn't you ever mention you were a gifted cook before?" The quality of the homemade cake was indeed amazing.

Molly placed a curved tupperware lid over the rest of the cake, putting it in the fridge. He could tell by the less tense set of her slim shoulders that she was pleased. "Uh, I don't know, really. I just am not really one to toot my own horn, I suppose."

Sherlock continued to devour the cake, watching her carefully. Silence, he'd found, was the best way to get Molly Hooper to talk openly as far as he was concerned. Molly nervously leaned against the counter, putting her palms against the edges as she looked up at him, biting her lip. "Yeah, I cook when I'm mulling over things. It helps me think."

"And what have you been thinking about?"

"You," she said automatically, then put a hand over her eyes. "I-I didn't mean… I just meant that you know, it's a bit of a shock, going about my life and then s-seeing you suddenly again."

"I can leave, if you want," he half-joked, raising his eyebrow. He had no intention of leaving. He simply needed to be near her.

Molly shook her head. She smiled nervously and reached for a discarded hairband on the counter, gathering her mane of shiny hair over her shoulder. "No, it's lovely having you here again, Sherlock. Really. Is- is there something I can help you with? A case?" she began carding her fingers through hair, fixing it into an elegant but simple side braid, feeling her way by touch alone.

Sherlock realized he was staring at her lithe, slim fingers as they wove the braid, and realized he was glaring daggers at the ring on her left finger. He quickly stood straight up and set his empty plate on the counter. Why had he come again?

For the life of him, he couldn't remember. He had no cases at the moment, just yesterday he had wrapped one up for Lestrade.

"I came to…"

Molly was fixing her lab coat back on, looking at him expectantly, her eyes kind and curious.

He was saved by his own impulses by a loud voice humming the choral bridge of The Phantom of the Opera behind him. He turned, and there stood Tom, wearing an open-throated dark purple dress shirt and pressed trousers, holding a fresh bouquet of pink roses, a goofy smile on his face.

"Tom!" Molly said nervously.

"Buuuuh, dun dun dun dun duuun," Tom sang, only sparing a nod Sherlock's way as he strolled in, holding up two West End tickets fan-like in front of his face. "Christiiine!"

Molly laughed, and looked at the tickets. "Oh my God, these are right in the front row!"

"Mhm, and they're for tonight. You get off in fifteen minutes, right?"

Tom laughed throatily, and Sherlock really wanted to punch him. He hated Tom's little fringe he had in front that was similar but so far removed from Sherlock's own thick mop of curls, he hated that the man was even an inch higher than himself and had a winning, easy smile. And he hated Tom's seeming possessiveness of Molly.

Irene Adler had always taunted Sherlock that he was a virgin and sexually awkward, as though she'd love to dominate him someday, but she had it the other way around, and she never knew it. _He_ was the dominant one. Molly was _his. _

When Sherlock Holmes kissed a woman, she would feel engulfed by him. He wanted to invade her every sense, to fill her with every molecule and breath and essence of his being. That was at least what he had tried to do in the brief moment he'd had to kiss her that day through the window, at Bart's. It had worked, but it was only a morsel compared to the feast he could actually partake of with this sod gone.

Sherlock saw a flicker of sadness and longing as Molly looked his way, and Tom turned around, as if suddenly realizing he were there. Sherlock realized with mild detachment that his fists were clenched, and that his nails were digging painfully into his palms. He had to get out of there. If he stood there another second, he would call Tom out and fly at him.

"Molly," he bowed to her, not bothering to look at the man with the roses. "_Tony_."

"It's _Tom_ actua-"

"Thank you for the dance," Sherlock said, fixing his gaze on Molly. "Do save me one at the wedding, won't you?"

"O-of course." Molly's eyes shone, and he realized tears were welling up in them. He felt the pull of her drawing him in, and before he could do something stupid, like move purposefully forward and snog her till she couldn't stand, he gave her one single unguarded look of love, willing her to get the hint, and whirled around, coat billowing out behind him as he left.

Sherlock heard Tom asking her what dance he had been on about, and he stored the memory of her, hair flowing and dancing carefree, in his mind palace.

He didn't know what lay in store for him and Molly, nor if she could ever accept that fact that he would never have what was considered a conventional relationship, but he knew one thing; he was going to get rid of Tom.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was at war with herself.

After Sherlock had kissed the life out of her two and half years ago and then disappeared, she thought she'd never see him again. Her heart had crumpled and she had felt lonely for her what seemed a very long time. Nearly a year had passed, and she'd thrown herself into her work, performing autopsies and biopsies, occasional liver transplants from recently deceased patients, and advancing to the Senior Specialist Registrar in Pathology at Bart's.

It wasn't until she went for drinks with some old medical school friends one night in Kent that she met Tom, who at first had reminded her so much of Sherlock from across the room at The White Rabbit pub that she'd believed she was having some kind of hallucination. But Tom was his own man, sweet and funny and kind, and very handsome. He was a traffic cop with the Metro police department, and he was like a summer's day after a long, cold winter.

She had been reluctant to date him at first, and had even done an online background check on him through a private agency, but gradually she went out with him a couple of times, and realized they had very similar sunny dispositions and good chemistry.

Molly was an emotionally honest person, and she believed in being true to one's self. The first couple times Tom had leaned down to kiss her full on the mouth, she did compare the passionate snog she'd had with Sherlock, and wondered if she could ever let him go, but the more they dated and the more time that passed, she realized he wasn't coming back and that she needed to move forward with her life. She knew it was twisted, but she liked it when they started their relationship, that he was so similar to Sherlock. Tom was bright and not a dullard by any standard. She might not ever be able to talk to him about the differences in elongation of rete ridges or the different hues of nests and strands of melanocytes beneath a microscope, but when she engaged in such dialogue with work friends, he would look on encouragingly. She simply had accepted the fact that Sherlock had left, and wasn't returning, and that she needed to move on and be as happy as she could allow herself to be.

And then he came back.

Molly sighed and leaned back in her office work chair, staring at the notes for the specimen in front of her, blinking but not really seeing them. She shook her head and forced herself to sit upright, move the long, slender pathology microphone closer, and she pressed the foot pedal below her desk to begin recording a digital dictation.

"The erm, specimen found in Mr. Whittaker's abdomen displays focal epidermal ulceration with scattered elongation of rete ridges, an inflamed serum crust, and overlying compact hyperkeratosis." She released her foot to stop recording as Sherlock's face, pained and uncharacteristically emotional, came unbidden into her mind.

_I wish you every happiness, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. _

"God, focus!" She chided herself, shaking her head as if a tiny Sherlock would pop out of one ear and skitter away along her desk. She yanked the microphone forward and looked down at her notes, continuing the dictation. "An um, immunohistochemical stain is negative for fungal microorganisms, but shows increased endothelial cells in the telangiectatic blood vessels lining the stratum corneum-" _And you thought he was it, didn't you? The love of your life…_ "Oh _bugger_," she hissed into the microphone. "Um, sorry transcriptionist. Omit that last bit, please and start from 'corneum'." She stopped the foot pedal, leaned back and covered her eyes, moaning.

Sherlock was an enigma, but the really confusing thing was that he kept sending her mixed signals. He had done since he'd been back, and she had no idea what to make of any of it. She'd finally gotten so irritated by it all that she'd decided to be cheeky for once and see if he would give an honest emotional reaction if she told him she and Tom were having a lot of sex (which they were, er, had been up until a few weeks ago). But Sherlock had only darted his eyes around, stoic as ever. The real revenge had come at John's wedding, when he'd asked Tom to stand up and basically prove that Sherlock was the superior choice in a man intellectually.

All of these thoughts and so much rage were bubbling up inside her, but coupled with that, she and Tom had broken up, badly.

It had come the night of the wedding reception, when she'd seen Sherlock go out the door with his coat. She had stopped dancing and was about to excuse herself from Tom to go after him, when she realized that sometimes the hardest thing to do, however painful, was the right thing. Sherlock was her friend. She loved him, yes, but he appeared to want nothing more, and she was promised to Tom.

That night, after she and Tom had made love in front of the fire in her nice flat, she realized he was frowning down at her, and he looked angry.

"Tom?" She asked, studying his normally cheerful face which was screwed up in anger. "W-what is it?"

"You said his name."

Molly's jaw dropped, and she realized that for the first time since being intimate with Tom, she had been fantasizing it was Sherlock above her.

"W-who's na-"

"Don't give me that!" he shouted, slapping the wall above her head with the flat of his palm. Molly jumped. "You know who!"

"G-get off of me," she said lowly, suddenly scared of him for the first time. He was a big guy.

He didn't move. "No. You said, '_oh yes, Sherlock_' plain as day just a minute ago as you came apart. What the _hell_, Molly?"

Forcefully, she pushed against his chest until he lost his balance and toppled to the side. "I said get _off_," she urged, sitting up and drawing the blanket over her bare breasts. "I don't remember. I must have had too much to drink at the wedding."

Tom sat up, staring at her. "Are you even serious? The guy's a bloody nut job, Molly-"

"Don't you dare-"

"He's psycho! The nutter spent half of the bloody wedding singing his own praises-"

"Sherlock Holmes is a _great_ man-"

"Oh, _obviously_! That's why he got on everyone's nerves, and left the wedding early. I can see exactly now why you want to shag him, he's got more balls than anyone should ever have-"

Molly slapped his face, hard. "Get. Out."

Tom's nostrils flared, and he stood up, completely naked, staring down at her. "Fine. We're not done with this, though. You don't shag me and think of him."

"I-I told you, I must be drunk-"

Tom crouched down, grabbing his trousers with one hand and gripping her jaw harshly with another. "Listen to me, Molly. I don't care if you're drunk or sober, when we make love, you think of me and _only _of me. Not that self-serving jerk. He doesn't love you. _I_ do. All he wants is an audience. Got me?" He squeezed her jaw tighter, and it hurt. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She nodded furtively. "Good," he said angrily, and released her. He left only minutes later, and Molly had spent the rest of the night curled in a blanket on the floor, stroking Toby and sobbing softly.

Now, weeks later, she was a_ngry_. Tom had had a point, she had always had integrity in their relationship and, while she appreciated the physical resemblance he bore to Sherlock, she'd fallen in love with the man he was, or who she'd _thought_ he was.

Tom had never been violent with her before, but she was an intelligent and successful woman. Once was enough. She'd written a letter breaking it off, and left it in his mail slot along with her ring, letting him know it was completely over a week ago. She stood and walked around her desk, looking at her small office and awards on the walls. Glossy magazine covers caught her eye, and she glanced down to the wedding mags and pattern booklets and venue lists she'd binned this morning after spotting them in her drawer. She would never be in any kind of abusive relationship; she'd witnessed the post-partum contusions, bruises and bodily damage that those who stayed in them experienced. That would never be her.

Mainly at the moment the two thoughts warring in her mind were the rage behind the breakup, and also the turmoil in dealing, or in _not_ dealing with Sherlock. He'dnot said a word nor come by since the wedding, but just an hour ago he'd shot her a text:

_Molly. I have a case I need your help with; may I come by and use the lab to dissect evidence? -SH_

And with that single incoming beep, she had turned into an emotional mess. Since he'd come back to life, she'd found herself being emotionally naked in front of him, just blurting out what she was feeling with no apologies for it. She was slightly afraid of herself and what might say or do, given the right provocation.

A soft knock at her door roused her from her thoughts. "Come in."

Anna, her intern, poked her head in. "Hi Dr. Hooper-"

"Molly," Molly chided patiently, smiling at the slim, red-headed girl.

"Yes erm, Mr. Holmes is in the lab, he wanted me to tell you."

"Thank you, Anna. Would you do me a favor?"

Anna entered, looking pleased at the prospect. "Of course."

"Remember the biopsies I had you dictate last week as practice?"

"Mhm?"

There's one there, just read from my notes starting from stratum corneum."

"You've got it!"

Molly smiled, pulling out her chair for the girl. Anna was finishing up her registrar training and almost where they could bring her into the morgue full time, the only problem they were having was that the girl was slightly squeamish about intestines, but that could be remedied with experience. Molly gave a nod and her thanks, and she made her way around the corner to the lab. Sherlock had hung his coat and was perched on a stool, gazing into a microscope.

"Hello," Molly said tentatively.

"Where is your ring?" he growled, his gaze glued to the microscope.

Molly wasn't even aware her left hand was anywhere within his line of sight, as she was standing more than ten feet away. She huffed, frustrated, and started towards him. "How the hell did you even-"

"Molly, you've known me for years."

Molly sucked in her cheeks and to her horror, started assisting him, bringing up a culture tray for his samples, unstoppering a vial harder than was necessary.

"Right, I forgot. You're Sherlock Holmes. "How stupid of me."

He sat up, and his clear, sharp eyes pierced her like a knife. He frowned slightly. "Are you… alright?"

Molly laughed nervously, taking some of the samples he brought and putting them in petri dishes. "Not really, Sherlock, but I will be."

"It's over with Tom?"

"Mm, that's right," she said, handing him an enclosed petri dish her with some sort of soil encapsulated inside. He held it aloft, but was studying her carefully. "I don't want to talk about it, okay? Really, I'm surprised you haven't gone out of your way to deduce what happened yet."

"I don't want to cause you any pain, Molly," he said earnestly. There was a questionable tone at the end of his voice, and she wondered if he had an idea of what had went down.

Molly threw her hands up, then put them on her hips, cocking her head at him. "And that's another thing, Sherlock. You don't text or call or email, then you just come in here and act all irritating, and then you say things like that that just make it unfeasible for me to be cross with you! Do you want to talk about causing people pain? How about when that cow, Jenny or Janette or whatever her name was at the wedding-"

Sherlock briefly shut his eyes. "Janine," he said distastefully, the way someone might say _mushy peas._

"Whatever; how about after a day of flirting with you and acting like you were the sun and moon, she totally disregards you and dances with some total idiot instead? How about that!"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, a curious expression on his face. "Do you know, I don't believe I've ever seen you this angry, Molly. I believe I like it."

"Well, get used to it!" she snarled, realizing she had no rein on her emotions at the moment. She kept avoiding his gaze, grumpily moving samples to petri dishes to help him. "I _really_ didn't like her, you know. She was all kind, and _cute_ and lovely, but she was just like some girls I went to school with, a total fake with a cold, cruel heart. It was a shitty, shitty thing she did. I'd of danced with you in a heartbeat."

Sherlock was silent, and to her horror Molly came to her senses, placing her palms on the laboratory counter, shutting her eyes after her little tirade. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't apologize," he said dismissively. "It was a dull, boring event anyway. I-"

"No," she whispered, rubbing her palms against the cold, flat surface. "You don't understand." She looked up at him, and met his eyes. "I'm sorry for not going after you. I saw you."

She felt a large, warm palm on her cheek, and she looked up at him, feeling the full penetrating gaze of his blue eyes.

"You always see me, Molly Hooper."

His thumb grazed her jawline, and without another thought, she closed her eyes and stood on her tiptoes, bringing her lips to his.

**A/N: Cliffie! Thanks so much for all who have taken time out to read this story, subscribe, follow, and comment. I wanted to continue this. There were some cringe-worthy moments in "The Sign of Three", but more interestingly I felt like Sherlock was purposefully choosing Lestrade and Tom to answer how they thought the murder was committed to illustrate his intellectual prowess over the others to Molly; that's how I interpreted it, anyway, because he specifically targeted her table. And yes, I know that the Anderson-imagined hot, glass-breaking window kiss was just illusory, but I am thoroughly convinced that Sherlock **_**did**_** properly snog Molly before he left, and that it was a lot like the one in T.E.H (but props to Anderson for the smashing-through-the-window and hair-ruffling bit). *fans herself. **

**Anyhoo, I don't know how long I'm going to make this story as I'm getting ready to self-publish a big, fat romance novel in the next week or two, but I'm officially Sherlocked at the moment, so yeah… *geeky voice: "Sherlock had me at hello!" If I do continue this, it will probably go up to an M-rating (just a warning for the youngins). Cheers. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, I'm just going out of my mind waiting for HLV tomorrow, so I thought I'd churn out another chapter. It's short and it's a filler, but I AM going somewhere with this. Several years ago, I thought it would be interesting if Molly was in fact a sleeper MI6 agent (similar to Dana Scully in that she also has a medical degree)… I don't know, I just feel like there's more to her, given we don't know anything about her past, where she lives, and we know she can stab Meat Dagger Man without even looking, and according to John's blog she disappeared for several months one time without even contacting them, so it's possible she has a whole other plethora of "certain" skills we don't know about, and that a lot of her quietness is just a ruse. I'm tempted to write something like this after this story's completed. Anyhoo, thank you kindly for subscribing! I hope you're all enjoying this. On to the story. Can't wait for tomorrow.**

"Ew! Is that cigarette smoke on your brea-"

"Sorry-"

"D-you… have you been smoking?"

Sherlock gently enclosed his hands over hers and pulled them off his chest, running his thumbs over her fingers as he kissed just below her knuckles and gazed into her eyes.

"My apologies, I should warned you. I'll have fresh breath next time."

"No, it's-it's fine," Molly laughed nervously, touching the back of her neck as a light scarlet glow flushed her face and neck. "Sorry to just fly at you like that."

He said nothing, merely watching her. He himself had been too lost in the moment, but he didn't regret her flying at him at all. He nodded his head towards his soil samples, smiling at her. "I've a case."

"Yes, of course," she said, snapping to action and getting busy beside him.

Sherlock carefully slid a gravelly-type residual substance from a sandwich bag into a vial, pouring formalin fluid into it to shake it into fragments. "But once I'm free I'd like to take you to that fish and chips shop I was on about," he muttered, not looking at her. He felt Molly's eyes on him.

"I'd like that," she said softly, and they worked in silence for a while. "Hmm. This looks slightly like it might have traces of blood. We may need to put it through a hemoglobin test. So, what is it we're looking for, exactly? Where did these sampled come from?" she asked while they waited for a soil fragment to liquefy.

He turned to her. "From someone's shoe. I'm looking to see where he-_they_ have been," _Idiot_, he chided himself. "They, they. I said they, I meant they. Of course I meant _they_."

Molly scrunched up her petite nose. "They, who? Who's 'they'?"

Well, it was actually Tom; Sherlock had been following the man's movements as much as he could for the last few months. He knew the exact day when Molly'd broken it off, as he had read the letter while drinking some of Tom's God-awful tea after breaking into Tom's flat, which was now mysteriously emptied and vacated, but she didn't seem to know any of that, and he wasn't about to tell her about Tom's disappearance, nor what he planned to do when he caught up with the bastard.

Instead, he evaded. "That," he said brightly, shaking the liquefied vial and holding it up to the light, "Is an excellent question."

"Dr. Hooper?" Molly and Sherlock looked up, and the young ginger intern was standing timidly by the lab entrance, twisting her hands together, obviously smitten and nervous around him.

Molly had her hands full of samples, and she blew a wisp of stray hair out of her eyes. "Just Molly again. Can I help you, Anna?"

"Yeah, sorry. We're having a problem with the skin fragment you want sent to the W.H.O. labs in Cornwall. The fixative doesn't appear to be strong enough. Could you come help?"

"Of course."

Sherlock took one of the petri dishes from her hands and nodded to her as she peeled and binned her gloves and excused herself as she followed Anna, and he continued to search through the evidence to find what 'Tom' of the Meat Dagger theorem had been up to, meanwhile thinking of Molly.

She was something of an anomaly to him. Whereas most female physicians expected, even _demanded_ to be addressed by the title they'd so arduously worked for, Molly underplayed _everything_, not having a giant ego or lecturing her intern condescendingly. She was simply interested in knowledge and science, minus the prestige, and that absolutely fascinated him about her. It always had. She didn't need to wave her M.D. in everyone's face or constantly try to prove that she was intellectually superior; she just _was_, but the infuriating thing was that she was nice about it. That's what made her genuine, and also better than him in so many ways. He cared deeply for her, but was also irrationally jealous.

Sherlock had long ago accepted the fact that he was unreservedly selfish and had a possessive streak that came with the whole high-functioning sociopath package. So he had no qualms at John's wedding in targeting Tom, and showing Molly who the Best Man _really_ was. And what did it take, only ten twenty seconds for Molly to see what a clown Tom was? The hand movements were an especially great touch. He couldn't have made Tom look more like an idiot if he'd been puppeteering the man's actions himself. Forgetting for just a moment his sneaking suspicion that Tom was, in fact, Sebastian Moran, the real mystery was in this fierce little woman who seemed to accept him unreservedly.

Molly was a _brilliant_ woman; she needed an equally brilliant companion who could engage her not only in physical sex, but in everything else on the same intellectual level. If the annoyed and irritated looks she gave during Tom's deductions were anything to go on, meat dagger conversations over Sunday roast were not in Molly's future, even if the louse hadn't 'been more physically aggressive than necessary', as she'd written in the goodbye note. Sherlock gripped the vial a little harder, willing himself to calm down. He would have his revenge and make the man pay.

It used to annoy him that Molly was so timorous around him, but having had a lot of time to think of her during his captivity and torture, he now found it endearing and flattering that she was initially daunted by him. He didn't deserve her affections, and he knew it.

Pathologically speaking, Molly could probably deduce more from the state of a body than he could, and that was something John could attempt to do, but never quite achieve, despite all his cleverness.

It mildly surprised Sherlock that John had not yet realized there was something going on between him and Molly, however indiscernible. The man seemed to have no clue of Sherlock's jealousy and hatred towards Tom, either; seemingly indifferent to the private war ensuing. For one so soldierly seasoned and medically accomplished, John could be remarkably thick about some things, especially considering he was romantically-inclined.

John and Mary were still on their Sex Holiday, and in his loneliness he had become obsessed with revealing Tom's true identity. Because really, who dressed up, practically in cosplay as a very well-known detective, when his fiancé (_ex-fiance_, he happily reminded himself) was very good friends with him? There was something there, and Tom had a very intense stare each time they locked eyes.

He needed to talk to Molly and be honest in letting her know he could never have a normal relationship with anybody… but he suspected in a foreboding but gradually accepting way that she would take what she could get, in whatever capacity they could achieve together.

It was enough for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you so much for your kind comments and for subscribing. Please note that the rating for this story has now increased to an M for violence, thriller and horror-esque elements, and sexuality. This chapter is quite scary and contains an animal's death. Please read responsibly, thanks. Enjoy.**

Molly's flat was exceptionally bright and colorful. It would be difficult to immediately explain it to a random person, but after working with deceased patients in a sterile, white and chrome hospital all day, introducing a lot of color to her senses was like taking a shot. It reminded her she was feminine and normal, and it was a healthy dose to her internal locus of control. Molly had certain routines she was used to when she got off of work at the end of the day.

Before Tom, she would walk in, draw herself a candlelit bath, heat up a meal and feed and talk to Toby about her day, and after cleaning herself and eating, she would read something work-related for a while, then settle down to watch the telly. _With_ Tom around, the routine was thrown out the window, and it usually entailed him attacking her the very second she walked through the door to her flat; he'd either rip off her clothes and take her right there, or carry her to the bedroom, and the rest of the night was usually spent going at it like loons, and then having a midnight dinner after he'd tired them both out.

Molly had only sexually been with one other man in her earlier twenties during medical school, but she was always an active, enthusiastic lover and gave everything to the moment. It was great that Tom had been the same; good sex with a good partner always made her feel right with the world and clear-headed. He had always been a voracious lover, and though she really liked being able to unwind and take time to relax after her hectic days, she found her body craving another's.

Sherlock sort of fell out of contact with her for five days, which wasn't unusual when he was on a case. It wasn't until the third night after she'd seen Sherlock that she found a single, long-stemmed pink rose at the doorstep to her flat. She had knelt down, frowning at it. No note, no card, nothing. Tom.

Each following night, she found herself sighing as she picked up another rose, and threw it in the trash. She would have to call him soon and ask him to stop, but she remembered how furious he'd been and the cold, dark anger in his eyes when he's slapped the wall. Instinctively she knew it needed to be completely over. Her body did miss the sex, but she knew she would never be intellectually happy with anyone but Sherlock, and it wasn't fair to Tom to continue like they were.

On the fifth day, Molly was performing a Y-shaped incision autopsy on a young Chav who had been knifed to death, when her mobile phone rang. She pulled the mask down beneath her chin, peeled off her gloves, palmed on some hand sanitizer, and answered the call on the nearby lab counter.

"Hello?"

"Molly, it's Greg."

Tired, she leaned against the counter and rotated her neck. Lestrade called her once in a while over certain cases. "Oh, hiya. How's it going?"

"Not so good, actually."

An alarm went off in Molly's head, and she shot straight up. "I-is it Sherlock?"

"No, actually. It's you."

She put and hand to the back of her neck, frowning. "Okay, I'm sorry, I'm confused. What?"

She heard him sigh gruffly. "I'm at your flat, and it appears that someone's, well-"

"Someone's what? What happened?"

"Well, there's pink roses everywhere. I mean everywhere. A tenant heard music being played really loud, so she sent the landlord up to check it out, and someone left you a message on the wall in paint and some… uh, disturbing things. Are you able to come down here?"

Tears sprang to Molly's eyes and her hands started shaking. "Y-yes. I'm finishing up an autopsy. I'll be done in about twenty minutes."

"We'll be here. Sorry, Molly. I texted Sherlock, he's looking around right now. I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's – that's fine. Thanks, Greg."

"Sorry, hon."

She ended the call, and shakily completed the autopsy, willing herself to calm down. She was in her position at Bart's because she was emotionally well-put together and very level headed, on top of being a skilled physician. She'd seen mangled bodies, people who had been tortured and shot and stabbed and burned, and had dealt with very large amounts of stress; but at the moment she was shaking like a leaf on a tree.

After getting Anna to tend the lab once things were secure, Molly drove to her flat, gulping at the three police cars and crime scene unit out front, and dreading what she would find with each step up the landing. As it turned out, she wasn't even able to go inside because Sherlock was blocking the doorjamb, looking guarded and formidable. He pushed a rollable suitcase forward, and she took the handle.

"Come, Molly, you're going to come stay with me."

"The hell I am!" she shot back, trying to budge past him. "Let me in, Sherlock, it's my flat! I want to see what-"

"-Happened? Very well. Your ex-fiance broke in, left you well over ten dozen roses, spray painted, 'My sweet Molly' on the wall above the sofa, and murdered and decapitated your cat. He left the head on a dinner platter surrounded by a nice curry meal on your kitchen table."

She gasped, covering her mouth.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" she heard behind him. Lestrade elbowed his way into the mix. "Have a little tact, you bastard!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes."Now Grant-"

"It's Greg!" Molly found herself shouting with Lestrade at the same time.

"Be that as it may," Sherlock said testily as Molly felt tears streaming down her cheeks. _Sweet Toby_. "We need to get Molly to a safe location. I know who this man is, I've dealt with him before, albeit indirectly. You have all the information I've given you, so we're going now. She doesn't need to see anything. If you need a statement you can get one at Baker Street tomorrow morning. Come on, Molly." Sherlock took the rollable suitcase in one hand and hers in the other, and she was too distraught to argue with him.

"Who- who would do something like this? Who would decapitate a harmless cat?" She wept in the cab on the way there. She glanced up at Sherlock, who looked absolutely furious. His eyes darted down to her, his jaw tight.

"Sebastian Thomas Moran, the second most dangerous man in London. He worked for Moriarty. _Tom_," he added as an afterthought, and Molly threw up in the cab.

Later, after showering at Sherlock's and a fruitless argument about the fact that she was now going to sleep in his bed, take some time off of work, and not leave his sight, she sat against his ornate headboard with her knees drawn up, arms around them as she contemplated it all.

"Did you know?" she asked nasally, her eyes still red-rimmed.

Sherlock was unbuttoning his over-priced cufflinks, looking carefully out the curtains. "Not for certain."

"No, I mean, did you know when you returned and met him for the first time that I was engaged to a psychopathic murderer?"

He turned, dark curls brushing close to one eye as he carefully watched her. "Again, not for certain. Had I been wrong, I didn't want to cause you distress or intrude in your relationship."

"But you were suspicious," her voice rose.

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "Molly Hooper, I'm always suspicious. I intruded once before,-"

"-and you saved me from furthering a relationship with a criminal mastermind! You let it go on at the wedding. God! The wedding! If you knew, Sherlock, if you had even the _slightest_ doubt-"

Sherlock looked down, displeased. "I wanted only for your happiness, Molly. I owed you that much."

"Bullshit!" she shot back, pushing herself off the bed and marching straight up to him. "Sherlock, I hadn't _slept_ with him yet when you came back. It was only after I let you go that day that I decided to further our relationship. God, I had _sex_ with him!" _A lot_, she thought with a sick, sinking feeling. Luckily she was smart and had a birth control implant in her arm, so there was no chance she could be pregnant. Tears involuntarily sprang to her eyes, and she was once again crying in front of him. She hated that.

Sherlock's expression softened as it had that day he took her out, and he walked slowly forward, his grey eyes conveying what his words could not. "Molly, I am … sorry."

"D-don't," she tiredly held up a hand to stave him off, turning. "J-just don't. I'm going to go make some tea." Whatever contrite expression he wore, she missed it as she angrily wiped away her tears and went into the kitchen, sobbing silently. She reached up on tiptoe for a teacup, and a sharp stinging pain entered the back of her neck.

Before she could scream, her vision went black, and everything disappeared. She felt strong arms wrenching her wrists behind her back, and vaguely, in the back of her mind, glass shattering.

"_I have often walked down this street before…"_

Molly found herself regaining consciousness to the sound of a beautiful male baritone voice, singing a song she'd heard as a child from an old musical. It rang out loud and clear, with a slight echo.

"_But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before…"_

It was such an ethereally amazing voice, way passed professional. She felt dizzy and relaxed, listening to it sing close to her ear and feeling lulled. A silly smile spread all over her face; it felt like she was floating. The voice was so familiar and beautiful, and she remembered hearing it sing show tunes in the shower in the not too distant past.

"_All at once am I several stories high,  
Knowing I'm on the street where you live."_

Her eyes felt weighted down and lead-heavy. She was completely relaxed, but she couldn't move a muscle, literally. She tried to wiggle her fingers, but nothing would budge, as if her brain were disconnected from all her orifices. She did vaguely register the weight of her engagement ring, back on her left hand. When the singing stopped, she gradually opened her eyes, vision wavering as she blinked blurrily up at Tom, who was smiling charmingly down at her, his face mere inches from hers. She was half-sitting, half-lying on some sort of soft surface, and he sat on a folding chair in front of her. Everything was oscillating. A single overhead light bulb swayed above her.

"That's it love, time to come round. There's my sweet Molly girl." He turned away from her, and she saw Sherlock, or rather the form of Sherlock, sitting on a dirty floor, chained with his hands behind a pole about ten feet away. They seemed to be in some sort of abandoned warehouse. "See, I told you she'd come around. She's going to be just fine, aren't you Molls?"

Molly tried to open her mouth to speak, but she found that she couldn't even do that.

"What did you give her, you bastard?" Sherlock snarled.

"Temper, temper, Mr. Holmes. Rohypnol, the date rape drug. Only I, uh," he chuckled, "Added some of my own cocktail. Molly can't harm a fly, and she'll be more than compliant. She's listening to everything we say, though, aren't you, love?" She felt his large, warm hand on her face.

"Oh!" he snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot. Someone wants to say hello. Don't move a muscle," he tittered at his own joke, and light-heartedly got up and walked away.

"Molly," Sherlock said, "I know you can hear me. Are you all right?"

She was aware she was wearing some kind of revealing dress and could feel the cool air on her chest. All she could manage to do was moan.

"We will get out of this. I'm working on getting loose, and John was going to come by to make certain you were physically sound, so he will work out that something happened and find us."

She heard Tom's/Sebastian's laughter, coupled with multiple sounds scuttling along the concrete floor. "Don't bet on it, Mr. Holmes. Come on, boy."

Sherlock sharply inhaled. "That's-that's not possible!"

"Come on, Redbeard. You remember Molly, don't you? Missing those walkies with her, aren't we? Come say hello." She saw the Irish Red Setter's soft nose prod her useless hands, and then he whined once and reached up to lick her on the face as if to say, w_hat's wrong, Molly_?

"That's- that's not possible!" Sherlock ranted.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes. You know Redbeard, don't you? Come back from the dead. I'm going to have fun putting him down right in front of-"

"No!"

Just that single word from Sherlock in such an emotional, desperate voice was enough to tell her they were all in a bad way.

"Oh, I'm not going to do it right now, obviously," Tom/Sebastian said. He took Redbeard's leash and tied to a pipe near Sherlock, who appeared to be crying.

She heard the folding chair scrape the concrete, and once again his handsome face was in hers. "I'm sure Mr. Holmes has told you who I am, so you can call me Sebastian. I like it better than Tom, don't you?" he asked silkily, tracing her jawline with his finger. "Much more romantic. And with you, sweet Molly, it's all about romance."

She wanted to hit him, scratch him, claw his eyes out, yell at him, but she couldn't do anything but stare.

"You see, Mr. Holmes," Sebastian said tenderly as he stroked the exposed flesh of her shoulders, "I am better than you, in every possible way. I'm a better lover, I'm a better adversary than Jim was, God rest his soul… and I'm better at loving Molly. In the end, I will take everything you hold dear."

"How-how did you know about Redbeard?" Sherlock demanded. She had never heard him sound so broken. She was able to move her eyes a little more, and the dog was nuzzling it's head into Sherlock's face. She remembered Redbeard being sweet as anything, and wondered what correlation this had to whatever Sherlock was feeling.

"Oh, we'll get to that," Sebastian said casually, lightly tracing the outline of the side of her breast. "Right now, I just want to talk about our Molly."

"Stop touching her," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously low.

"I mean, just _look_ at her," She felt Sebastian's long finger stroke down the side of her face, traipsing lightly down the line of her neck. "She _is_ very beautiful, isn't she? It took me a while to see it when I realized you had a thing for her… because let's face it, it's not like she's made up to the nines or goes to the tanning salon or has implants, is it? She's no Irene Adler… but she _is_ classically beautiful, like a painting from the renaissance. And she's wicked smart. I'll have to lay her out _au naturale_ one day and have a go at an oil canvas. It's interesting, but when she sleeps, she makes these endearing little noises, like she's humming and sighing at the same time. Though, they're _nothing_ compared to the noises she makes when she's aroused and we're fuc-"

"Shut up _right now_," she heard Sherlock growl, and the heavy tight pull of chains echoed in the room. "I am going to tear you apart."

Sebastian seemed unaffected, continuing to stroke Molly's face and speak lovingly. "Oh Sherlock, believe me when I say you'd be _shocked_ to learn what an amazing body she's hiding beneath all those frumpy jumpers and bulky lab coats. Absolutely perfect, and you'd never know it. She's really passionate in bed, too, nothing at all like you'd think. Our Molly is a real treas-"

"I said _shut your mouth_!"

Sebastian chuckled. "Finickity, aren't we? You know I'm right. You just never had the balls to act on your feelings, because you thought they'd make you weak. I always thought she's a good source of strength. Well, you missed out and Magnussen was right. It's ultimately the one mistake that's going to cost you. It's your ultimate undoing. Isn't that right, Redbeard? Yes, there's a good boy."

"You're insane!"

Sebastian merely chuckled.

"Insane in love with this girl, right here. Maybe we should do it right in front of him, yeah, Molly? Show him how it's done? He could learn a thing or two."

Molly managed to utter a groan that was more of a pissed-off growl to let him know exactly what she thought of him. He continued to stroke her.

"Hmm… but not here. It's unsanitary. We'll need to top up your sleepy juice soon, love. Oh and yes, Mr. Holmes. You wanted to know how I knew about Redbeard. Well, before you murdered my employer in cold blood-"

"I didn't kill Moriarty, he took his own life," Sherlock interrupted, sounding more like the Sherlock she knew. The fighting Sherlock.

Sebastian tittered again, meanwhile looking lovingly at Molly. "Why, whoever said I was talking about Jim? I'm talking about Charles Magnussen. Before you murdered him, he sent the encrypted files-"

"-What _files_, they were all in his head-"

"Ah yes, that. You know, for a purported genius, you really are a numpty at times. You checked his glasses, yes, but it is the twenty-first century. Did you ever think to check the _contacts_?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you all **_**very**_** much for reviewing and subscribing; my gosh! This was actually originally meant only as a one-shot, but it sort of mutated and gave birth to baby chapters. I've outlined where I want to go with this, so it should be wrapped up soon. Head's up: This chapter contains strong sexual innuendo and psychological sabotage, thanks. I own nothing Sherlock-related.**

With one single word, Sebastian Moran sent a movie of sorts playing in Sherlock's mind palace. Images of his own hands, taking Magnussen's spectacles off and peering through them himself, but seeing nothing, then handing them guardedly back to the confident older man. Of course. How could he have been so blind or not have seen it, or suspected the glasses were a ruse?

He was almost always accurate in his deductions, yet the most obvious and humane of assumptions managed to delude him, which must have been Magnussen's intent all along. He knew the dog who lay near him could not possibly be his Redbeard; yet they'd managed to get a perfect replica with even the same demeanor.

Sebastian was watching him with a shrewd smile. He snapped his fingers again. "Hold that thought." He stood up wearing black jeans, a dark shirt and black leather jacket, and he punched a number into his mobile phone. "It's me. We're ready. Right now. Yeah, bye." He shot Sherlock a misplaced, professionally polite smile as he tucked the phone away, and rubbed his palms together. "Now, I'm sure you have all sorts of questions, but right now we need to get Molly comfortable and let her sleep while we have a little talk en route."

The echo of heavy car tires resounded in the warehouse, and a large, white lorry slowed to a stop near them.

Sherlock looked over at Molly, who had been laid out on an old red settee, and put into a sleeveless black satin Versace gown that opened almost down to her navel, exposing her toned, pale stomach and gentle curves. Her glossy brown hair spread fan-like down her shoulders, and she had a glass-eyed vacant expression, staring towards Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Moran, I am prepared to negotiate. Whatever it is you want … whatever you're after, I can give it to you. Just let her g-"

"No you can't," Sebastian chuckled, seeming to think Sherlock was telling a capital joke. "I already _have_ what I want; total domination of Molly, and to show you I'm superior in every way. And our strategically-planned attack is going to happen soon. You've no _cards_ here, Holmes. Understand that. And besides, it's not me that has personal business with you. My sole purpose in all of this is well, for the money and position, obviously – but also Molly is part of the package. I get to do whatever I wish to her for as long as I deem necessary. She's the _only thing_ that interests me in all of this, aside from you realizing how insignificant you are compared to me." Tom crouched down, lacing his fingers together loosely as he looked nonchalantly at Sherlock. "You may not believe this, but all things considered, I think you're really quite boring and up your own arse. I thought so at the wedding, and I do now. I don't care what happens to a selfish, sociopathic sycophant, but I _am_ going to take the one thing you hold dear, keep her as my pet for my own purposes for the rest of her life and then, quite literally," he stroked Redbeard, speaking softly, "Feed you to the dogs. Piece... by piece… by piece."

Sherlock lurched forward. "If you are indeed only a foot soldier in this sordid game you're playing, calling me a sycophant is entirely contradictory-"

"Ha, you're one to talk! For a man entirely up his own tree, pretending indifference and suffering in silence rather than admitting romantic feelings for a unique woman ring _completely_ of irony. And besides, unlike you, I'm not a sociopath. That's why Molly fell for me."

"Then what _are_ you?" Sherlock growled.

Sebastian stood and reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and withdrew a syringe and bottle, holding it up to the weak light as extracted fluid from it. "An opportunist. A strategist. And quite a sane one at that; the only difference between you and I is that I readily accept my own actions. I don't mask them through contrived diagnoses so that I can feel better about being a giant bastard and feel indestructible. I _make_ myself indestructible." Sebastian checked his silver wristwatch. "Listen, we'll have plenty of time to chat about what a git you are on the way there. But letting Molly go is not even in the cards for you; not even close, mate. She's mine. Face it Holmes; you've no leverage to bargain with, and I'm not the one you _really_ need to be speaking with. Though, I _would_ like to discuss her further." With a sickeningly loving stroke of his fingertip down Molly's forearm, Sebastian injected the syringe into a vein at the inner crook of Molly's elbow, and her glassy brown eyes closed immediately.

Sherlock heard footsteps, and two men in black Kevlar and ski masks stood right in front of him.

"You want us to put 'im in the back, Sir?" asked the larger man, nodding his head to Sherlock.

"Yes. You, take the dog. You, take Mr. Holmes and secure him tightly. Don't touch the girl." Sebastian opened the left flap of his jacket to stow away the syringe, and Sherlock saw the glistening black metal of a Glock nestled in a backwards holster. Right handed. Cross shooter.

"Is everything prepared?" Sebastian asked, sliding his arms beneath Molly's limp knees and neck and lifting her.

"Yes, sir. He's waiting for you back at the base. We should be there in under an hour."

"Well, good. Get on it, then." Sebastian turned with Molly in his arms, walking to the opened back of the lorry, which was lit up inside.

"Yes, sir," said the shorter thug, pointing his gun at Sherlock's temple as the other man took Redbeard's lead. "On your feet."

The inside of the lorry was like a high-tech swanky caravan. Two long, white couches faced a flat screen TV that had been secured by some sort of drilled plexi glass to the wall, and there were drilled-in wall shackles next to the sofas that they secured Sherlock's wrists and ankles to. He didn't resist, primarily because Molly was laid out on the sofa next to him, but also because he was scanning from right to left and making mental notes of everything.

Sebastian lifted Molly's head and sat down, resting it on his thigh. Redbeard settled onto the couch next to him.

"Ready,boss?" The larger man asked, holding the pulley for the back door.

Sebastian nodded, holding up a remote control to turn on the flat screen. "Do it."

The door closed with a loud clang, and Sherlock heard the bolt being driven home. His attention turned to the flat screen, where Sebastian was seeking out a stored video in whatever hard drive was hidden from his view. He caught the blurry glimpse of two paused naked bodies in many video options, and turned his head away.

"Spare me. If I wanted to watch porn, I would have to look no further than John's laptop. What sort of game are you playing, Moran?" An acidic sensation filled his throat at the familiar long, brown hair he'd caught a glimpse of on the screen, the same hair Moran was now stroking on his lap.

He heard Sebastian chuckle. "Oh, but this is quality viewing, Holmes. Not like any porn you've ever seen, I guarantee it. I had hidden cameras all over Molly's flat, and her ring was wired for sound; it's how I knew how much she meant to you when you confessed to her that day you took her out to solve crimes. I have a whole video library of our encounters, right here. I can check them out any time I want, and I often do. Let's have a look at our first time, shall we?"

"No," Sherlock said firmly, narrowing his eyes and glaring to the side so as not to see. "I've no desire to watch this." He knew Molly would be absolutely mortified if she was awake.

Sebastian merely guffawed and clicked a button, and heavy, breathy moans echoed loudly through the back of the lorry.

"_I… I'm not sure we should do this," Molly's voice spoke timidly. "I mean, I want to and all-"_

"_Then what's to think about?" Sebastian's voice throatily replied. "We're going to be married, anyway. Come on. I want you so bad, Molly. So bad. Please."_

"_I-unh!" She cried out, and Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of rhythmic flesh and a furious, wet rubbing sound._

"_I can't think when you, oh! Oh, yes, Tom! There, oh yes!"_

"_Don't think," he heard Sebastian reply. "Just please, Molly, let me be inside you. I can't do this all the time and then not have you. I'll go mad."_

"_I…unh, I want you, Tom."_

"_Yes?"_

"_Yes. God, yes."_

Within seconds, Sherlock heard video Sebastian's grunting in vivid detail as he entered Molly, and her strenuous gasps as they started moving.

He clenched his eyes shut. If he had to see even a second of what he was hearing, he would lose it.

"Shut it off," he said through clenched teeth, anger surging through his veins as the sounds of their passionate sex rebounded around him in stereo.

"Not a _chance_," Sebastian laughed. "I've been waiting for this moment since I met you. Oh, did you like that, by the way? How I dressed up as you when we met? I got a kick out of it, though Molly was confused. I knew it'd make it hard for you to deduce me. Tell me the truth, did it work?"

Sherlock said nothing, trying to not hear the breathy moans and slap of skin on skin as actions of the lovers onscreen grew more frenzied. He'd thought Molly had dressed Sebastian up the day of the press conference, but he'd been mistaken. Channeling his thoughts in that direction, he tried not to listen to the moans on the screen, which were now becoming louder. In order to keep it from dominating his thoughts, he did what he did best, and postulated.

"I admit I was thrown by your appearance that day. I did suspect you weren't who you claimed to be from your staring alone, but I admit that my gravest mistake was in deducing you were a simpleton from the theory you gave at the wedding."

Tom turned off the video and threw his head back, laughing. "Oh, you liked that, did you? Truth be told I needed to start getting an easy out with Molly to put this all together. What better way than to make everyone think I was a meatball?"

Sherlock looked in the man's direction and noticed a darkness settle in his expression. "I know everything, you know. I know how Molly helped you fake your death. I was there that day."

"I know you were," Sherlock said. "You were the sniper."

Sebastian looked mildly impressed. "Not bad. I know that you kissed Molly. I know that she took you back to her flat, and I know that you stayed with her, in her bed, for three weeks. I also know that you couldn't muster up the guts to do more than sleep beside her during that time."

Sherlock frowned, swaying on his feet with the movements of the lorry, which had now picked up speed and was jerking around bends. "If you were watching us, which you clearly were, why didn't you make your move then?"

Sebastian sighed, fingering Molly's hair and moving a long, brown tendril out of her face. "I told you, Holmes. I'm an opportunist. I had to wait for the right moment."

"And _this_ is it?" Sherlock mocked. "You were Moriarty's right hand man. What could you possibly have to gain now that he's dead?"

Sebastian gave him a lopsided grin. "Who said Moriarty was dead?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter contains a character's death. This fan fiction story is meant as nothing more than just a complimentary fictional adaptation to the characters from the "Sherlock" ****world, and I make no financial gain from writing these stories…. Uh, why am I writing this again? Oh yeah, because I'm obsessed with Sherlolly. Duh. A chapter or two more and I'll be done with this puppy. Thanks for subscribing, everyone!**

The first thing Molly registered when she came to was a constant, high-pitched ringing in her head, as if someone were ceaselessly chiming a musical triangle in her ears. She was light-headed and laying on something flat and cold, like a gurney. When she opened her eyes, her vision was blurred. Little halos of light danced around her retinas, and she couldn't make out where she was; only that she was being hastily wheeled down a brightly lit hallway. Her head felt detached from the rest of her body, and it occurred to her that she was under the influence of a powerful sedative or narcotic. She dozed off a little, dehydrated and devoid of energy, and when she came to again later she found herself being slid backwards onto a slightly curved but soft surface.

The second thing Molly comprehended when she felt conscious enough to open her eyes again was also a sight so ridiculous and unfathomable, that she knew she had to be hallucinating. A goateed and very much alive Jim Moriarty was staring over her, fresh and crisp in a business suit, and next to him an intense-eyed Sebastian gazed down at her. More absurdly, he had Sherlock's arm locked around his shoulder, and Sherlock's head dropped unconsciously near his own.

A striking, whirling sense of vertigo invaded her mind, and she thought drunkenly of the silly, "Snap, Crackle and Pop" characters on cereal commercials, and assigning each name to each face of the men, she found herself giggling uncontrollably. Little wisps of laughter escaped her frozen mouth, and came out as bursts of tiny "ha-ha's" through her slightly parted lips.

Jim frowned. "Hmm. Laughter wasn't _quite_ the reaction I was going for here, but at least she has a sense of humor. Give them both the shots of adrenaline. Wake them up properly, and meet me in the drawing room down in the vault. Make sure they're both cognizant. I want them fully awake." With a rustle of clothing, Jim moved out of her line of sight. From what she could see, she was in a big, light, airy and very posh room that had a slightly floral scent.

Sebastian grunted and moved Sherlock to a ridiculously expensive-looking couch opposite the one she'd been laid on, where he clumsily deposited Sherlock's limp body. "God, you're heavy," he muttered. In a second, he was back at her side, gently pushing away hair from her face. "Ah, Molly. Just a little bit longer, and I'm going to take you away for good. What fun we're going to have." He leaned in closer and touched his nose to hers. "I, uh, kept some things about my more darker urges hidden from you, but I don't have to anymore. I can't wait to show you what I have planned."

Shivers of fear filled Molly's frozen body, and she wordlessly moved her lips, trying to speak but still unable to. She had to get free and regain her senses.

Sebastian walked into a room out of her line of sight, then returned, contemplatively holding a fat syringe full of a clear viscous liquid, that could very well have been water, were it not for its thickness sloshing against the tube. Sebastian pursed his lips, looking first at her, then over his shoulder at Sherlock, who lay limp as a noodle on the other couch, arms spread eagle and lacking any discernible element of his usual grace. "Hmm. I think you first. Let's see those pretty legs."

Molly still had absolutely no control over her faculties, but she could feel his hand lifting the side slit in her ridiculous dress to bare her shapely leg, and his fingers feel along the outer edge of her thigh. If she was fully functional she would have kicked him right where it hurt and fought fiercely, but all she could do was tremble with fear. It did seem to work, however, as her body had at least started shaking.

He seemed to consider this, frowning slightly at the moving leg. His large fingers bore down, holding it in place as he readied the syringe with his other hand. "Not to worry," he muttered, "Just some epinephrine. So long as you don't have any heart diseases, which I don't believe you do, it'll just be the same as consuming a huge amount of caffeine, which you're used to. There's a girl."

As she felt first the sting and then the penetrating coldness of the medicine invade her body, Molly shut her eyes and silently prayed she and Sherlock would get out of this. This had to be a nightmare. She felt a searing coldness penetrate her body, and then a weird numbing sensation, and then suddenly everything was working again and she was alert, rapidly alert, overtly awake, and all she wanted to do was get up and run. She sat straight up, glaring at Sebastian.

"Welcome back," he said, amused.

"You complete bastard! I demand you let us go this instant! I don't know who you think you are, but you have no ri-"

The tell-tale latch of the safety on the gun in his hand, raised and trained on her, made her gulp. At the moment, her heartbeat could literally compete in the Indie 500 and win. "Stand up," he ordered coolly. She closed the slit over her exposed thigh and stood, staring up at him with loathing. "Now, walk this way," he grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her in front of him. "Through that door straight ahead, and down the stairs. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get us out of here and get down to what I have planned for you." He painfully squeezed her thin arm; he was undeniably strong, and with her thin limbs, he could probably snap her arm in half, should he choose to do so. "Don't fight me, Molly. I'd rather you be in one piece, but I can work with two."

A burning sensation developed in her throat as she did what he demanded, sparing a last look at Sherlock as she passed him.

She was fully alert, looking around at everything. Colors seemed brighter somehow, the floral fragranced air intoxicating. They seemed to be in a swanky, modern house of some sort; all white and tan and chrome. She heard water trickling somewhere nearby from what sounded like a fountain. "Where are we?" She asked, slowly stepping down the modern spiraling staircase that seemed to be heading to a basement.

"Appledore," he chatted, and she felt the cold hard point of his gun at her back as they moved, and he maintained his grasp on her elbow. "It was Magnussen's place, but it belongs to us now."

"Us?"

"Me and Moriarty. Do you remember seeing him just a moment ago?"

"Yes. That was real?" She gasped as the man in question walked right in front of her.

"You better believe it," he said, the subtleties of his trickling Irish brogue slipping through. His dark, sinister eyes looked malevolently at her in sheer open glee.

"But you're supposed to be dead! Sh-Sherlock was there-"

"When my _brother_ took his own life," he finished for her, rolling his eyes. "It's all very tedious, don't you think, and I'd much rather go over all this with Sherlock.

Though," he slowly took her in from head to toe, "I have to say, I don't think I've seen you look quite so sexy, Doctor Hooper. I mean, wow! _C'est magnefique_!"

"Thank your accomplice," she spat, darting her eyes back to Sebastian. "I had nothing to-" She broke into a fit of coughs, and it struck her that she hadn't had anything to drink since she took a shower at Baker Street, however long ago that had been.

Moriarty looked at her shrewdly for a moment, then at Sebastian. "Give her some water."

"Yes, sir."

Sebastian pushed her deeper into the posh parlor, which was more lavishly and classically decorated as opposed to the contemporary theme upstairs. She looked to the side, and down the hall two double doors opened to what looked like a room of shelved files.

Sebastian pushed her down into a scarlet-colored arm chair. "Stay," he ordered, as though she were Redbeard. Thinking of Redbeard made her think of Toby, and she clenched with anger.

"You just go right to hell," she bit back hoarsely, aware that Moriarty was watching her a few feet away. He sat down in a chair opposite her and retrieved a fountain pen from his dinner jacket pocket, writing something down on a thin square of white paper, using his knee for balance.

Sebastian handed her a fine crystalline tumbler filled with cold water. She took it with slightly shaky hands, sipping carefully at first, and then greedily gulping it down, the water soothing her sore throat and livening up her body.

Moriarty finished writing and pocketed his pen, smiling down at his note. He winked insouciantly at her and stood, handing Sebastian the note and taking his gun. "Set that down on the coffee table next to Sherlock, give him the shot, and get your arse back down here. You don't want to be anywhere in the vicinity when he wakes up."

Sebastian looked doubtful. "Well, what's to stop him from leaving and getting away?"

Moriarty smirked. "Read it."

Sebastian's eyes flitted over the masculine handwriting. "'If you ever want to see your Molly alive again, come down the stairs, or I will kill her. You have one minute. Take nothing with you.'"

"It'll get him down here. Go," Moriarty softly ordered.

Without a word, Sebastian took the note and ascended the stairs.

Moriarty stood in front of her and took the glass from her hands, setting it down on a slim table and pointing the gun at her. "Get up. Be a smart pathologist and don't test me." Molly stood. If she was going to try to get away, the best bet in this situation would be to take cues from Sherlock. She could and would fight, but she needed to know he was alright first.

Moriarty turned her by the shoulders so she was facing his back, and she drew a ragged intake of breath as he pulled her back into his chest, his arm locking around her neck and gun pointing to the stairs. "Let's see how he deals with this little chestnut, hmm Molly?" he breathed in her ear.

She was terrified, but she held her resolve and watched as Sebastian jogged down the staircase, hollering that it had been done. He slunk to a corner of the room and watched the stairs.

"He's going to crush you. You know that, don't you?" she said calmly.

Moriarty's arm tightened slightly around her neck. "Molly, love? Do be quiet."

Less than a second later, she heard familiar footsteps that could belong only to Sherlock, and saw his shiny black shoes on the top of the stairs.

"I'm unarmed," his voice boomed down.

"That much is obvious, Sherlock. Come down the stairs, slowly."

She watched him take a few steps down. "Who are you? James Moriarty is dead."

Sherlock's trousers came into view as he stepped down.

"You're right, he is," Moriarty called conversationally behind her. "But he's also not."

She saw Sherlock's button-down shirt and neck, and he stopped where he was. "I don't understand."

"Then let me enlighten you. James Moriarty was my older brother, fifteen minutes older to be exact."

Sherlock descended the last step, and his eyes riveted towards her, and she saw that burning heat had always drawn her to him, that elemental unbridled intelligence assessing everything and everyone. Moriarty continued to speak behind her, pressing the point of the gun to her head. "He was James Alexander, I'm James Christopher. James and Jim. Try not to judge. It was the seventies; our parents had issues. "

"Indisputably," replied Sherlock drily, taking a step forward.

"That's far enough, Sherlock. While I have to thank you for saving me the trouble of killing Magnussen, the trouble with James was, you tangled with the wrong brother. See, _he_ was the sane one. I'm sort of what you would call the black sheep of the family… the loose cannon, if you will."

Sherlock's eyes flitted to her, and he seemed to be weighing the situation very heavily. She focused on her breathing and watched him. "So, while _he _ran London, _you_ remained out of sight and assisted him?"

"Oh no, it's _me_, Jim. I met you by the pool, remember? Hiii," he sang in a parody of his first eerie salutation. Molly felt the vibrations in his chest behind her. "I was also the one who dated our lovely Molly here. My dear older brother was only interested in the more civil and interesting moments. I took care of the rest. I made a promise to you that day by the pool, Sherlock; do you remember it? Come on, in that vast mind palace of yours I bet there's a duplicate of me somewhere, and you recall word for word everything I've ever said to you. I said I would do something to you. What was it, huh Sherlock? _What_ did I say?" The intensity of Jim's grip on Molly's neck clenched more and more with the venom in his words, and she choked and struggled to breathe.

Sherlock's face paled to a ghostly sheen, if that was possible, as realization dawned on him, and he stopped coming forward, his hands up in a placating gesture. "All right, you win. You said that you would burn the… heart out of me." Molly met Sherlock's horrified gaze for a moment, and she longed to reach out to him.

Jim shook his head like a wet dog and beseeched the ceiling. "Give that man a medal! _That's_ why we're equals, Sherlock, right there! Boo-yah!" He drew Molly closer to him, and she could feel her neck pulse beating wildly beneath his thumb. "What do you think, Dr. Hooper?" he hissed in her ear. "Shall we burn the heart of him, piece by piece? What do you say? Let's burn you alive, starting with your fingers. "What do you say, Molly? Should we… _donate _your body to science? Maybe Sherlock can dissect the remains of your parts. I think he'd rather like that."

"No!" A deep voice called out. Molly's eyes searched around, but she had to look no further than right in front of her, because Sebastian threw himself before Moriarty, clenching the other man's hand so it loosened from her neck, looking intense.

"You said she was mine. You said- _promised me_ that I could keep her, and she wouldn't be a part of this once you had Holmes!"

Jim scratched his temple with the barrel of his gun. "Yeah, well, that's the problem with promises, isn't it? You make them to a decent person, and you have to follow through. You make them to an obsessed maniac, and well," in a flash Jim leveled the gun at Sebastian's face and fired a clean shot. Sebastian fell instantly in a lifeless heap to the floor, "You can't very well follow through or he'll ruin your plans."


End file.
